


Head Hangs Lowly

by claire__farron



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Study, Gen, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 07:19:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9480845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claire__farron/pseuds/claire__farron
Summary: A long time ago (it feels like forever), he had been to excited to get his hands on a real zombie hunt.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place... I don't know, sometime. It doesn't really fit anywhere in Supernatural canon so... yeah.  
> This is once again unbeta'd because I am lazy. Also, I do not own Supernatural or any of it's characters. It's just for fun. 
> 
> Slight Dean/Castiel, if you squint reaaaaaally hard.
> 
> Cross posted to my blog: geekymlt.tumblr.com/

His hand doesn’t shake as he picks up the shot of whiskey and knocks it back.

A long time ago (it feels like forever), he had been to excited to get his hands on a real zombie hunt. Dean chuckles mirthlessly at the thought. Now, though….

He can hear the undead moaning outside, the shuffling of their feet on the pavement, the clatter as they run into this and that. It’s enough to drive him insane (well, insan _er_ because he's pretty sure he's already nuts). He pours another shot. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting at the bar. It was about a quarter of a bottle ago, though. Trying to drown away the memories. It went badly so quickly. What he thought would be a few zombies here and there turned out to be the beginning of a full-fledged outbreak. In the chaos, he lost Sam (another bad memory, another worry, another shot. It burns more than the last as it goes down). He hopes that Sam’s ok. He has to be, right? Can’t kill a Winchester….

He hid out in a small house, only to find it occupied by a mom and her teen daughter. They were scared shitless (and why wouldn’t they be, civilians who have no idea what the fuck is going on, even without the zombies milling around), but were twice as agitated when Dean told them about killing the undead (and isn’t that just a fucked up thought -- how do you kill something already dead).

He spent the night alternatively keeping on eye on the mom and daughter and trying to call any and all hunters he knew. It didn’t go well. There was no signal in this damn town and when he went to use the house’s phone, the line was dead. So no extra hunters, no idea where Sam was, and no Cas answering his prayers (where the hell was Cas anyway).

He had managed to drift off to sleep when he heard rustling from one of the backrooms. Then a noise he was coming to dread: that low, haunting moan. He sat up and glanced up the stairs. No mom or daughter. Is that what they were hiding? A zombified loved one they were hoping would just snap out of it?

Dean crept silently to the door, wincing as a board creaked. He stopped and listened. No movement upstairs, but the moaning became louder, more insistent. He stepped to the door and slowly pushed it open. 

(Another shot. Half a bottle down. He knows he shouldn’t, that he needs to keep a clear head, a steady hand, a clean shot)

A child. A boy, couldn’t have been older than 10. Dean could see where he had been bitten, the dark red bite against his pale (not pale, corpse gray. Have another shot, Dean) skin on his neck. His eye were glazed over and he moan louder, struggling against the bonds on his wrists holding him to the radiator (at least those two had gotten that right). 

Dean rubbed a hand over his face, struggled to breathe, to think straight. No wonder they had been scared about him shooting zombies. He sighed, raising his gun, knowing that he had to if they wouldn’t…

“NO!” The mother ran in, blocking the boy (zombie) with her body. The daughter jumped on his back, beating on his head, screaming at him to stop (that much fucking noise, God only knew how many other undead would be drawn). He twisted around, trying to snatch her off when they both heard the squeal of pain and sickening sound of skin tearing. Of course the mother had gotten too close. Of course the boy (zombie, dammit) had taken a chunk out of her. That made sense. What didn’t make sense was the daughter grabbing his gun and shooting the zombie boy and the infected mom and then herself (bang, bang, bang). Too fast for him to stop any of it (when did he become so old and slow).

He pours another shot. He thought that all these years of hunting at hardened him enough to anything and everything. It clearly hadn’t.

“Dean.” Dean closes his eyes and gives another soft laugh. He turns around to find Cas there. Of fucking course he comes now, after all Dean has dealt with. And why does Cas looked concerned? The hard part is mostly over. Cas steps over to him, eyeing him warily. “How long have you been here drinking?”

Dean stares at him, and then the bottle. “Dunno. Three-quarters of a bottle ago.” Cas doesn’t looked very impressed by his new way of telling time. “Where have you been anyway?” 

Cas is quiet, watching Dean for a moment. “The Angels were trying to figure out just who started this mess here. I heard you, Dean. I just needed to make the best plan to quarantine the area and begin eradication.”

Dean snorts. Of fucking course the Angels were somehow involved. 

There is crash, followed by the groans on the undead. They’ve broken down the back door. One zombie shuffles toward them, only one arm extended since the other looks like it’s been ripped off, dried blood caking the dirty clothes hanging from it’s body. Dean takes a shot of whiskey and picks up his gun. He fires, not even really aiming (why bother when you’ve almost drank almost entire bottle). Luck had be with him because it hits right between the zombie’s eyes, it’s body crumpling to the ground for the other zombies to stumble over. 

Cas steps closer. “I need to get you out of here before the Angels raze this town.” He places his hand on Dean’s shoulder (an oh so familiar spot) and the with next blink of his eyes, he’s at Bobby’s house. He sits heavily in one of Bobby’s kitchen chairs. He can see Sam in the next room, sleeping. He counts Sam breaths (he’s alive, thank Cas, he’s alive). 

Cas set the bottle of whiskey from the bar in front of him, as well a shot glass. “You can continue what you need to do. I will care for Sam. He never endures teleporting as well as you can.”

Dean grins (whiskey finally working its magic) as he pours some whiskey. “Well not all of us can be great at apparating.”

Cas’ eyes narrow. “I’m assuming that is some pop culture reference that I don’t understand.”

Dean winks and throws back the shot.


End file.
